[Intro] (Slow, rhythmic thumping like a heartbeat) (Sound of a match striking) [Verse 1] The fire’s eating green wood, spitting sparks against the dark I’m sitting on a saddlebag, waiting for a mark. But the scrub-brush isn’t empty, and the air is getting thick With the smell of cordite smoke and a lamp without a wick. There’s a fella by the water-trough who shouldn't be upright He’s got a messy chest-wound that’s leaking out the light. [Chorus] And the lead is in the dirt, but the debt is in the room It’s a crowded kind of lonesome in the canyon’s belly-womb. I can’t outrun the faces, and I can’t outshoot the shade Every notch upon the handle is a tether I have made. Yeah, the tally-man is coming, and he’s bringing back the dead. [Verse 2] The Marshall’s standing quiet with a badge turned black by soot He’s tracing circles in the sand with a heavy, limping foot. He doesn’t reach for iron, and he doesn’t say a word Just watches me get smaller like a tattered, broken bird. Then the gambler from the basement—he’s shuffling thin air With a deck of greasy nothing and a hollow, milky stare. [Bridge] (Music swells, distorted slide guitar) I told 'em all to get. I told 'em "Boys, I'm done." But you don't get a Sunday just 'cause you put down the gun. The quiet is the hammer, and the memory is the pin And the chamber’s always loaded with the places that I’ve been. [Guitar Solo: Slow, weeping, minor key] [Verse 3] The fire’s down to embers, just a red and glowing eye The stars are getting swallowed by a bruised and heavy sky. I feel a hand upon my neck, cold as winter well-water The ghost of every man I sent to the sudden, bloody slaughter. My heart is just a dry husk, rattling in my coat As the Waco Kid leans inward and puts a finger to my throat. [Outro] (Drums stop) (Only the sound of wind whistling) It’s a long walk... In the dark... With the men you left behind. (Fade out on a single, low guitar note) And the lead is in the dirt, but the debt is in the room It’s a crowded kind of lonesome in the canyon’s belly-womb. I can’t outrun the faces, and I can’t outshoot the shade Every notch upon the handle is a tether I have made. Yeah, the tally-man is coming, and he’s bringing back the dead.

Ballad of Hunted Gunfighter